


The Butcherbird of Blaviken

by inexplicifics



Series: Silver and Steel [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Geralt and Amaranth meet a young woman who calls herself Shrike. It goes...bloodily.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), background Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Eskel
Series: Silver and Steel [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614712
Comments: 9
Kudos: 192





	The Butcherbird of Blaviken

“Stregobor,” Geralt grunts, sitting down next to Amaranth at the little table she’s claimed in the back of the tavern. “Opinions?”

Amaranth leans away from the table and spits on the filthy inn floor. Geralt’s eyebrows rise. He’s never seen her do _that_ before. “I’d call him pond scum, but it’d be an insult to pond scum,” she says. “He’s competent, I’ll give him that, but he’s a nasty piece of work.” Her eyes go wide. “Fuck, does he know about the cub?” They don’t use Deidre’s name, out in the world, if they can help it.

Geralt shakes his head. “Why would he care about her?”

“He’s one of the idiots who believes Eltibald’s ramblings about the girls born under the Black Sun,” Amaranth says. “I’ve kept my ears open since we found her: there’s a group of mages who have been collecting girls born that day, killing them, and dissecting them. Is he after our cub?”

“No, he wants to hire me to kill an amphisbaena for the king.” Geralt shrugs. “Price is fair.”

“Well, that seems straightforward enough,” Amaranth says, shrugging in return. “Want me to see about hiring you a boat?”

*

“So the next time I say someone’s a nasty piece of work,” Amaranth says as they make camp, “remind me to listen to myself.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, the first bit of amusement he’s felt in a couple of days. “Not your fault.”

“Of course it’s not my _fault_ Stregobor’s a cheating piece of shit, but still, I feel like I should have been a little more dubious about you taking that job.”

“Amphisbaena _did_ need killing,” Geralt points out. “Fishermen were grateful.”

“Well good for them,” Amaranth mutters, then sighs. “Oh, fuck, I don’t mean that. I _am_ glad they’re safer now, and I’ll admit dried fish makes a nice change from venison and rabbit. Still. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d spell permanent itching powder into every pair of that little shit’s underthings.”

Geralt snorts. “Vicious,” he teases, looping an arm around her waist and reeling her in close. He’d be angrier himself if Stregobor’s nastiness had sent them penniless onto the road, but even if King Idi allowed himself to be convinced to refuse to pay for the amphisbaena, Amaranth’s spent three days telling tales in the best inns in the capital of Kovir, and _her_ purse is full enough. Traveling with a talented storyteller means that Geralt has gone hungry a _lot_ less than he used to in the years before he met her.

“Rrr,” says Amaranth, an attempt at a growl that might have gone better if she hadn’t giggled in the middle of it. Geralt nuzzles her hair and shows her how a growl _ought_ to sound. Amaranth shivers and turns about in his arms, reaching up to lace her fingers through his hair and pull him down into a kiss.

That’s the last time either of them thinks about Stregobor for some years.

*

“Problem,” Geralt says, sitting down beside Amaranth. She pushes a plate of mutton over to him, and waves the serving maid down for a mug of ale. Geralt eats and drinks quickly, as hungry as he ever is after a hunt. The kikimore wasn’t _particularly_ difficult to kill, but still took a little while.

“What problem?” Amaranth asks once Geralt is done.

“Brought the carcass to the mage to sell,” Geralt says, grimacing. “Alderman said it was Master Irion, but it’s that little shit Stregobor.” Amaranth scowls and looks like she’d like to spit again, but this inn is rather better kept, and the floors are fairly clean. “He wants to hire me - to kill a girl.”

Amaranth’s scowl gets fiercer. “What did you say?”

“Said I don’t kill humans,” Geralt says, shrugging. “ _He_ said she was a monster, same as the kikimore, and killing her would be the lesser evil than letting her live. So I left.”

“Fuck,” Amaranth says, and lapses into silence, drumming her fingers on the table as she thinks. “Gotta be a girl born under the eclipse,” she says at last. “If he’s trying to hire _you_ , that must mean he can’t do it himself, which suggests she’s resistant to magic.” _Just like Deidre_ , she doesn’t say, but Geralt hears it all the same. Little Deidre - not so little, now, a young woman lanky and lean and agile, daughter of the witchers of Kaer Morhen and their best protection against magical assault. Geralt’s cub, child of his pack. The idea of another girl like her being hunted by a sorcerer like Stregobor makes bile rise in Geralt’s throat.

“Fuck him,” he says. “Not going to do his dirty work. If she’s smart, she’s three countries away.”

Amaranth nods. Geralt’s about to signal for another mug of ale when a young woman, well-armed and wearing battered leather armor, swaggers in through the inn’s doors, looks around, and heads straight for him. “You the witcher?” she demands.

Geralt nods.

The woman sits down without asking permission, paying no attention to Amaranth. “I’m Shrike.”

Geralt’s eyebrows rise. That’s one of the names Stregobor gave for the girl he wants dead: Princess Renfri, called Shrike, leader of a band of dangerous bandits. The girl - eighteen years old, she must be, if she was born the same night as Deidre, dark-haired and dark-eyed and fierce - grins at him mirthlessly. “Heard that old bastard mage tried to hire you to kill me.”

Geralt nods. The girl spreads her arms. “Well, take your shot if you’re going to.”

Geralt eyes her. In his peripheral vision, he can see half a dozen men taking up positions around the room - Shrike’s bandits, he’d lay money on it. “I don’t take contracts on humans,” he says.

“Really,” she says. “Do you count sorcerers as human?”

Geralt frowns. “Yes,” he says, because anyone who tries to argue that _Amaranth_ is any less than human is asking for a punch in the mouth, as far as he’s concerned.

“So if I offered you double what he paid to kill Stregobor…?” Shrike trails off, leaning her chair back on two legs and grinning.

Geralt genuinely considers it. His first experience with the sorcerer was terrible, and a man who’ll send a witcher after an eighteen-year-old girl is certainly not worth protecting. But he’s a witcher, and witchers stay out of politics. Breaking that rule leads _ugly_ places. He shakes his head. “I don’t take contracts on humans,” he says again, firmly.

Shrike rocks forward again, her expression going hard and angry. “He’s a _monster_ ,” she snaps. “He’s been hunting me for years. Do you know what he had his man _do_ to me?” Geralt doesn’t have time to answer: the story spills out of her like bile, harsh and biting and foul. It’s no worse than others Geralt has heard - no worse than things he’s _seen_ , or been just too late to prevent - but it’s foul enough for all that. “He wants me dead,” Shrike finishes. “But I’ll have _his_ head first. He’s afraid of me. He _should_ be. But he’s holed up in his tower, the coward, and I can’t get to him. _You_ can. He’d let you in, if you said you’d come to take a contract. He’d let _you_ close enough.”

Geralt shakes his head again. Shrike’s expression gets uglier. “You say you don’t kill humans,” she snarls. “Well, if you don’t kill Stregobor for me, then every person who dies tomorrow is on _your_ head, witcher.”

She stands, knocking her chair over, and Geralt’s hand snaps out to clasp her wrist. “What do you mean?”

“He’s the mage for this town, isn’t he?” Shrike asks, grinning cruelly. “If my band starts killing people, he’ll have to come out to defend them. And once he’s out, he’s _mine_.” She twists her hand. Geralt tightens his hold.

“Stregobor called you a monster,” he says. “You start killing people, you prove him right. Find another way.”

“I’ve been _looking_ ,” she cries, voice spiraling almost to a shriek. “He won’t come _out_ , the bastard!”

 _She’s only eighteen_ , Geralt thinks. As young as his Deidre, but nowhere near as well-loved. There was no witcher to claim Renfri by the Law of Surprise and spirit her away to a mountain fastness. No clan of witchers made themselves her uncles and doted upon her, trained her, rejoiced over her. She saved herself, remade herself, not into a wolf-cub but into a shrike. Butcherbird, tiny and vicious and fierce.

If Deidre was ever harmed as Shrike has been harmed, Geralt would slay everyone who dared lay hands on her. The entire Wolf School would descend, howling, on whoever had dared touch _their_ cub. But there is no one to howl Shrike’s vengeance but herself.

“I won’t kill him,” he says, “but sit down. There might be a way.”

Shrike stares at him incredulously. He lets go of her wrist, and, very slowly, she rights her chair and sits again.

“What are you thinking, my wolf?” Amaranth murmurs. Geralt takes her hand under the table and squeezes her fingers gently.

“Going to try to talk him out of it?” Shrike sneers. Amaranth shakes her head.

“Stregobor deserves to die,” she says evenly. “And you’ve a right to the death-blow. I am only wondering what Geralt has come up with. Though -” she glances around, at the tavern full of people ostentatiously _not_ paying attention to them - “perhaps you _should_ storm off. And then meet us in our room in...oh, an hour? I shall leave the window open.”

Geralt grunts and nods. That’s probably wise. Shrike’s eyes narrow. “Going to have Stregobor’s minions waiting on me?” she snarls.

“I would not sell a dog to Stregobor, much less a brave young woman,” Amaranth says.

Shrike studies her for a moment, then gives a short, sharp nod and stands again, sending the chair crashing back to the ground. “Fuck you, witcher, _and_ your whore,” she snarls loudly, and stalks out of the tavern, leaving a spreading silence behind.

An hour later, she eels through the window of the room Geralt and Amaranth have rented, and glances around. Amaranth is sitting on the bed with Geralt sitting on the floor between her knees; she is braiding his hair. Geralt has his eyes half-closed and is not purring, mostly because he heard Shrike coming. Shrike settles into the only chair in the room and gives them a rather incredulous look. Geralt looks back impassively. He doesn’t need to posture to prove he’s more dangerous than anyone else in the town besides Amaranth. If he wants to sit on the floor while his lover braids his hair back, he will.

“So what’s this idea you have?” Shrike demands.

Geralt hums. “Bring you to Stregobor,” he says, and Shrike stiffens, one hand going to the long knife at her belt. “Stop outside his wards. Tell him to come out to get you.” He nods to the rope manacles he spent a few minutes knotting earlier. “Those come right off.”

Shrike relaxes slowly. “And then I can kill him,” she says. “Fair fight. Him against me.”

Geralt nods. Amaranth cards her fingers through his hair gently, and he can feel the tension in her legs against his shoulders. If Shrike turns this offer down -

Well, Geralt will defend the townspeople, if it comes to it. But he would prefer not to kill this girl, fierce and ferocious and as young as his own cub. It isn’t her fault the world is full of monsters, and she’s had to become just as vicious to survive.

Shrike stands. “I’ll meet you at the turn in the road a mile north of town at noon tomorrow. If you play me false, my men will put a dozen arrows in you - witcher or not, that should see you dead.”

Geralt ignores the threat. “A mile north of town, at noon,” he says. Shrike nods and vanishes out the window, and Geralt puts his head back to rest in Amaranth’s lap and closes his eyes and sighs.

He’s not sure he’s doing the right thing. But if it were _his_ cub in danger, he’d slay armies to defend her. Shrike doesn’t have anyone to stand as her protector. It’s only right that she have a chance to protect _herself_. And Stregobor’s done nothing to deserve Geralt’s loyalty, or even his good will. It’ll be peculiarly appropriate if he dies at the hands of an enemy he himself created.

Amaranth is stroking his hair gently, soothingly. She’s been oddly quiet, though she doesn’t smell distressed. Geralt opens his eyes to see a contemplative expression on her face. He hums a question.

“Just thinking about our cub,” Amaranth says softly. “It’s like a warped mirror - what she could have been, if not for us - you and me and Eskel, the Wolf School, all of us who love her.”

Geralt nods. Her words echo his own thoughts.

“Let Stregobor reap what he’s sown,” Amaranth murmurs. “Our cub is a young wolf, brave and true; his nestling’s grown to be a butcherbird. Let him deal with the consequences of his actions.”

Geralt nods again and closes his eyes. He won’t bother feeling guilty, if Stregobor dies. Let the birds come home to roost where they will.

*

It’s market day in Blaviken, and every eye turns to follow Geralt as he hauls a hissing, spitting, furious girl through the market towards the sorcerer’s tower. Several people start forward, objections dying in their throats as he glares at them. He’s glad of that, actually: the more people who are on Shrike’s side of this conflict, the better for her. Shrike is a handful even for a witcher, putting her full weight into her attempts to wrench the rope out of his hands; he is honestly impressed by her acting skills.

He stops just outside the sorcerer’s wards and clears his throat. “Stregobor!” he calls. “Come out. I’ve got the girl you wanted.”

A window flies open, and Stregobor leans out. There’s quite a crowd watching by now, crowded up between the buildings, but Stregobor doesn’t notice them in time. “I didn’t want her _alive_ ,” he snaps. “Kill her!”

Shrike screeches at him. Geralt shakes her gently and frowns up at Stregobor. “You want her dead, you can do it yourself,” he says. “I brought her to you. Come take her if you want her.”

Behind him, there’s a low growl building from the townspeople. Shrike might be a notorious bandit, but her band hasn’t caused much trouble in _this_ area, and she is - very obviously - a _young_ woman. She’s actually rather smaller than Deidre is, and Geralt suspects it’s from not having enough to eat for several years. Disheveled and bound, she makes a far more sympathetic figure than Stregobor does.

“Fine!” Stregobor snaps, and shuts the window. Geralt waits, Shrike yanking at the rope manacles and swearing, until the sorcerer finally emerges and ventures very warily past his ward lines, glaring daggers at Geralt. If it weren’t for Amaranth’s protection, Geralt would be genuinely worried about being cursed into a beetle. Stregobor is holding a long knife in one hand, rather awkwardly. Not used to doing his own murdering, Geralt expects.

“Alright, then, witcher, hold her still,” Stregobor snaps, raising the knife. “And rest assured I will _not_ be paying you for this, you useless bastard.”

He steps closer.

Shrike pulls her hands free and yanks her dagger off Geralt’s belt.

Geralt...steps back.

He’s both impressed and, honestly, slightly disgusted by the viciousness of Shrike’s vengeance. She chose her name well: she leaves Stregobor’s body draped over a wall, impaled on the spikes studding the top, his blood oozing down to form a pool in the dirt.

Shrike gives him a little bow when she’s done, and strides out of town with her head high and her dripping blade in hand; the townsfolk give way before her, looking just as taken aback as Geralt feels. The alderman is the only one bold enough to come forward and verify that Stregobor is dead.

“What will we do for a sorcerer now?” he asks Geralt plaintively.

“Send to the Brotherhood,” Geralt says, shrugging. Blaviken’s a sizeable town; the Brotherhood will send someone along soon enough. “Next one maybe won’t be so stupid.”

“Ah,” says the alderman. Geralt turns and walks away. Amaranth will be waiting for him outside of town; he’s pretty sure the people of Blaviken would prefer he be elsewhere as fast as possible. Even if _he_ didn’t kill their mage, he made it possible. But - one dead, and that one who richly deserved it, rather than however many might have died if Shrike’s bandits tried to lure Stregobor out of his tower, both among the townsfolk and the bandits? Geralt can’t regret that.

Amaranth is waiting for him just where he expects her to be, in a small warded camp just off the trail, half a mile outside of town. Amaranth’s mule Briar and Geralt’s Roach are tacked up save for their bridles, and Amaranth is braiding Roach’s mane. Briar’s is already adorned with flowers.

“I scried the whole thing,” Amaranth says when he joins her. Geralt wraps his arms around her waist and tucks his nose into her hair, inhaling lavender and sage, a far more pleasant scent than human blood.

“Hm,” he says, just as glad he’s not going to have to describe it.

“I think the Butcherbird of Blaviken is going to be quite a good tale,” Amaranth says, leaning back against him with a little sigh. “People like the gruesome bits.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and takes one more good deep breath of her familiar, beloved scent, and pulls away to start bridling Roach. Amaranth gets Briar bridled and breaks the wards, and Geralt leads the way down the road, away from Blaviken.

**Author's Note:**

> The shrike is also called the butcherbird for its charming habit of impaling its prey on thornbushes.


End file.
